Chapter 24 Thanksgiving
The drive upstate was golden-hour perfect. Daniel’s hand on my thigh the whole way, windows cracked to let in the crisp November air, playlist full of old soul tracks he knew I liked. We talked about nothing important—his sister’s baby’s first words, the way his mom still burns the edges of her famous cornbread, how he’d convinced his dad to try yoga last month and the man lasted exactly seven minutes before declaring it “torture for hippies.” I laughed. Really laughed. The kind that starts in your stomach and feels foreign after so long.
But as we turned onto the long gravel driveway of the family house in Hudson Valley—white clapboard, wraparound porch, smoke curling from the chimney—the vibe shifted. Subtle at first. Like the temperature dropped a degree without warning.
Daniel parked behind a row of cars: his parents’ Subaru, his sister’s minivan, an old Jeep that probably belonged to a cousin. Lights glowed warm in every window. Classic Thanksgiving postcard.
He killed the engine. Turned to me with that easy smile.
“Ready to meet the chaos?”
I squeezed his hand. “Born ready.”
We stepped out. The air smelled like woodsmoke and pine. Leaves crunched under my boots as we walked up the path. The front door flew open before we reached it.
“Lia!” His mom—Ellen—rushed out in an apron dusted with flour, arms wide. She hugged me like we’d known each other forever. “Daniel’s told us so much. Come in, come in, it’s freezing.”
I hugged back. “Smells amazing in there.”
She beamed. “Wait till you try the stuffing. Secret family recipe.”
Inside: warmth, noise, the clatter of dishes, kids running in circles around the living room. Daniel’s dad—Tom—waved from the kitchen, spatula in hand. His sister Claire bounced the baby on her hip and gave me a quick, appraising once-over before smiling.
“Finally,” she said. “The famous Lia. Daniel wouldn’t shut up about you for weeks.”
I laughed. “Hope he didn’t oversell.”
“Oh, he did,” Tom called from the stove. “But we’ll forgive him.”
It should’ve felt good. Welcoming. Normal.
But something was off.
Not hostile. Not obvious. Just… layered. Like everyone was performing warmth instead of feeling it. Eyes lingered a second too long when they thought I wasn’t looking. Questions were polite but probing.
“So, Lia,” Ellen said as she poured me wine, “Daniel says you’re from Italy originally?”
I nodded. “Born and raised in Rome. Moved here a couple years ago for work.”
“Must’ve been a big change,” Tom said, stirring gravy. “Leaving family behind like that.”
The word “family” hung. Heavy.
“Yeah,” I said carefully. “It was.”
Claire bounced the baby. “What kind of work brought you over? Finance, right?”
“Analyst at Vanguard. Mergers and acquisitions.”
“Impressive,” Ellen said. But her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Must be demanding. Long hours?”
“Sometimes. But I love it.”
Daniel slid an arm around my waist. “She’s basically running the place already.”
Laughter rippled. Polite. Surface-level.
Dinner was served family-style. Turkey carved perfectly. Mashed potatoes whipped with butter. Green beans almondine. The cornbread—edges slightly charred, just like Daniel promised. Everyone talked over each other: work stories, baby milestones, neighborhood gossip.
I smiled. Passed dishes. Said the right things.
But the weird vibe kept pressing.
Tom asked—casual, almost too casual—about my parents.
“Mom passed when I was young,” I said. “Dad… he passed a few years back.”
Sympathetic nods. “I’m sorry.”
Then Ellen: “Any siblings?”
“No. Just me.”
Claire tilted her head. “And extended family? Cousins? Aunts and uncles back in Italy?”
I hesitated. “Not really in touch. Life got complicated after Dad died.”
Complicated. The understatement of the century.
Daniel squeezed my knee under the table. Supportive. But I felt the shift in the room—like they’d all exchanged glances when I wasn’t looking.
After pie—apple, pumpkin, pecan—everyone migrated to the living room. Fire crackling. Football on low. Kids playing with new toys.
I excused myself to the bathroom. Splashed water on my face. Stared at my reflection.
You’re fine. They’re just curious. Normal family stuff.
But when I came back down the hall, I heard voices from the kitchen—low, hushed.
“…doesn’t add up,” Claire was saying. “Two years here, no family visits, no photos on her phone, no stories about holidays back home. And Daniel says she’s cagey about her past.”
Ellen sighed. “She’s lovely. But… I don’t know. Something feels guarded.”
Tom: “She’s not telling us everything. You can see it.”
Claire: “I just want him safe. He’s been through enough with the divorce. If she’s hiding something big—”
I stepped into the doorway.
They froze.
I smiled—small, calm. “Everything okay?”
Ellen flushed. “Of course, honey. Just… clearing dishes.”
I nodded. Walked back to the living room.
Daniel was on the couch, bouncing the baby. He looked up, grinned. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I lied.
The rest of the evening passed in slow motion. Board games. Coffee. More pie. Hugs goodbye when it was time to leave.
In the car, Daniel drove quiet for a while. Then:
“They liked you.”
I stared out at the dark highway. “They’re protective.”
He glanced over. “They’re nosy. I warned you.”
“They think I’m hiding something.”
He sighed. “You are. But that’s your business. Not theirs.”
I looked at him. Really looked.
“You don’t ask,” I said quietly. “About my past. About why I never talk about Italy. About the scar on my wrist.”
He kept his eyes on the road. “Because when you’re ready, you’ll tell me. Or you won’t. Either way, I’m here.”
My chest tightened.
“I’m trying,” I whispered. “To let you in. To be normal with you.”
“I know.” He reached over. Took my hand. “And I’m trying not to push.”
We drove in silence for a while.
Then he said, softer: “If there’s someone back there… someone you’re not over… you can tell me. I won’t run.”
I closed my eyes.
Dante’s face flashed—sharp jaw, gray eyes, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered in a world full of knives.
“I’m over the waiting,” I said finally. “But I’m not over the love. It’s… stuck. Like scar tissue.”
Daniel nodded. Slow. Understanding.
“Okay.”
We didn’t speak again until we hit the city lights.
Back in Brooklyn, he walked me to my door. Kissed me goodnight—gentle, patient.
“Call me tomorrow?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
He left.
I stood in the hallway. Coat still on.
Pulled out my phone.
Opened the drawer. Took out the burner.
Still charged. Still silent.
I stared at it.
Then I powered it off.
Not forever.
Just for tonight.
I walked to the window. Looked out at the river.
The city glittered. Indifferent. Beautiful.
Life kept moving.
Weird family vibes or not.
Daniel or not.
Dante or not.
I was still here.
Still breathing.
Still choosing.